kingdomsofrain | picture prompt meme

Isolde tilts her head, not particularly caring. "We are twelve women in one space, Ghoul. We are going to make noise whether we like it or not. The only thing you can do in invest in some earplugs or turn the radio up louder."

She is about to mention he's shocked he has working ears.

"Oh, please. I'm not suggesting you keep quiet as a tomb, human. I'm merely requesting that you take it down a notch or five." He folds his arms, eyes hard behind his sunglasses. If this is the way these women carry on, it's going to be an awfully long... week, month, God, he hopes they don't plan on staying for years. He'll throw a fit if that's the case. "I don't think it's too much to ask."

He shouldn't be surprised. The pretty ones always think the world revolves around them. (Because Dean Domino doesn't operate anything like a similar assumption. Of course not.)

Edited 2018-03-26 07:29 (UTC)

Well... that is a common Olathe thing to say to a stranger. The people here fight just to fight here, it's a way to pass the time here while humanity dies every minute, every second.

Either way, this man has the wrong idea about her. Buddy merely shakes her head no. The masked dude is a rather silent person.

"Human? You must have me mistaken for some high rollers spoiled little toy, you radiation filled cunt." The insult said with venomous words and her steel grey eyes turning a burning orange.

It's much like when a snake bares it's fangs. If he dares to try, she would not mind finishing off what atomic fire could not.

There's a moment where Dean feels an iced brush of concern. The initial shock passes quickly, though, and he tilts his head at her. Interesting. Or it's just a pain in the ass, another freak he’s stuck dealing with. It isn't as if he hasn't seen strange sights before. He spent a couple hundred years living in a poisonous fog and fending off ghost people, for God's sake.

Still. Not knowing what this creature is, he'll have to play a little more careful. At least try keeping a semi-civil tongue in his head. "Fine. Whatever you are, then, banshee or siren or witch or creature of the flame, I'm only asking for a little cooperation.

"And you ought to take it as a compliment. You pass yourself off very well as a human." Well. Well enough, anyway.

If Bill ever suspected that Fagin had something to do with him and Nance, he'd have been split in two. On the one hand, he would've wanted to run away from the whole thing, spurn Nancy or do whatever he had to in order to keep from the old man's grasp. He didn't want any part of those machinations (never mind that he himself had long been a part of them, though he'd never recognized it, never could see it that way).

On the other hand, she was Nancy. And he can hardly think of a time when just a glance from her hadn't meant something. Can hardly remember what it was like when she wasn't around, and as soon as she'd gotten old enough to catch his attention, well. She was different from anyone he'd met, always surprised him in ways no one could, and always, always made him feel welcome. Made him feel more like himself.

As she does now. Her forehead against his is more reality than he'd had all those years she was gone. Brings him back to the man he is, close to the man he can be, sometimes, with her. (He doesn't think about the difference, doesn't recognize it, and doesn't realize his anger's further away when she's so near; he only knows he feels more steady with her. Centered.) His own hand is at her waist, and right now he feels he could sit like this forever, her hands on him, just the two of them, and never mind all those wretched dreams.

"I know it. I know it. All these years... You're the one thing I've got. The only thing that matters."

She loved him. She loved him so much, and she would scream it from the rooftops if she saw the benefit of it (there was no benefit). Bill had saved her, he protected her. He was handsome, and when he looked at her- when he touched her- was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She loved how he'd pull her over to sit on his lap, how he'd let her hold him close when she saw he needed it. The way he said her name.

"It's you and me," she tells him, "Bill Sikes and his girl Nancy. Always has been, always will be. The Devil himself can't keep us apart." She kisses him again. "It was all a bad dream."

Not... Not what had happened that night so long ago. That she knew was real, had happened. But they were here together again, they'd paid their dues. He wouldn't- he wouldn't lose control like that again. He couldn't.

He's sitting beside the guy now, glancing at the mask without giving the stranger any kind of extended look. The Photojournalist has learned the hard way that it's better not to stare out here. (Better not to stare anywhere. Kurtz had almost driven him away for looking just a little too long, pitched a shoe at him and sent The Photojournalist running for cover. Shit, he never should have left. The man had a temper, but he meant something. Knew things. And he echoes always in The Photojournalist's head.) Instead, he looks at the bottle in his hand, fiddles with his camera, stares off into nothing.

"Oh, you're the silent type, huh? I can dig that. Uhhh, never could stick to it, myself. Every time I try it's like, it's like give me thirty seconds and BOOM, running my mouth again." He laughs, a trailing, uncertain sound, and takes another drink.

"Whooooee, that's good stuff. I haven't had anything to drink all day. Or, uh... Maybe yesterday, either. Hehh, the days all fade together, don't they? I tell you, man, it's a weird world we live in. A weird weird world."

"I only wanted to make a point here, we possibly could not keep to your standards of noise, even if we tried. So the problem is with you, not us." She sniffs a bit and tosses her hair just for good measure. And a matter of fact... "Why do you spend all your time alone in this place anyway? Don't you have anything better to do?"

Edited 2018-03-29 05:41 (UTC)

Not really, but there are some people that are are tiny as me.

[Although this isn't the sort of card she was talking about and she looks at the demon in confusion.]

It's not my birthday, but thanks.

"So flattered you've been keeping track of my movements." Or lack thereof; she's not wrong in her assessment. The truth is, he'd gotten used to solitary life in the Sierra Madre. The thought of going out, of mingling with others, is exhausting. And dealing with the stupidity of people? Ugh. No one could pay him enough for that. Then, too, he doesn't exactly know anyone in the neighborhood. "As much as I'd love to hit the Saturday-night martini bars with my buddies, the luster of nightlife starts to fade after a couple hundred years."

Isolde... actually sorts of feels some amount of pity for the poor ghoul. He's sort of lonely here without living friends.

"That always happens, but it's not a reason to give up hope. I'm 621 years old... I think. Everyone that is long lived has that, but what matters if you're willing to get out in the world. It never changes, it's filled with idiots to laugh at."

While he's no fan of pity, it's been a while since anyone spoke to Dean with something approaching understanding. It's almost... Comforting, really. It's for that reason that he doesn't snap back at the woman (and maybe, just maybe she's not so bad after all.)

"You're not kidding, are you? And here I thought I was ancient. No offense intended, of course.

"Never been one for hope. Still. I do love a good idiot. They provide endless material for entertainment. And I suppose I could use a bit more excitement in my life."

Edited 2018-03-30 05:05 (UTC)

[ Heck.

Then again statistically the odds were against him. It was a 1 in 365 chance that it did happen to correlate to the chosen occasion. If the birthday card won't be enough he has another idea up his sleeve.

From his pocket he produces a more delicate looking envelope that smells as if it has been drenched in perfume. ]

Here's a Valentine. Never a bad time to make someone sick with poetry.

“And God knows the Devil’s tried.” Meaning Fagin, of course, but there's a twinge at the back of his mind that says there was another devil involved, the devil that almost did the real work of it, though he refuses to listen to that thought refuses to give it any heed or credit because it's nothing, it's nothing, it's in the past. It's... What's done is done, and it can't ever happen again. Won't happen. Nothing on this sad excuse for an earth could prompt him into causing her pain. Certainly, nothing could make him go so far as… It isn't worth thinking.

That night’ll never be repeated, that’s what matters.

He draws her body to his, willing his head to stop churning, focusing instead on her warmth, how right she feels up next to him, how strange it is to find so much comfort in being close to someone. How he can feel the beat of her heart against his own, how her skin is softer to the touch than anything, how at times like this she makes him forget the weary old world. And those scars... Though he doesn't like the flash of memory they carry, she looks none the worse for them, wears them well and glows in spite of everything. She is - right now, she certainly seems to be - the only thing he needs in life.

"Christ, I love you."

This time, when Nancy laughs, it's a giggle. It's in her toes, the tip of her nose. He kept saying those words! Bill kept repeating himself, telling her over and over again he loved her- this was three times now, if she wasn't mistaken. Three times more than she'd ever heard from him. It only took death to bring the words out of him, but they'd come out.

It was worth it.

She leans in, kissing him deeply. Her eyes are shut, and she puts her everything into the kiss. All the love she's had for him these five past years, all of it. "I love you too, Bill Sikes. My Bill- and I'm all yours."

She's old, Dean. ~~Old as balls.~~ She knows a thing or two about about constantly feeling alone because all your friends are dead and you have to make new ones. Such is the curse of being long lived, especially in the Wasteland where even the some of the people that are longer lived can be taken out by a human thing.

But you must go on, try to hold on to whatever companion you can have by any means necessary. Because living long and not having companionship is the absolute worst thing, and she's been downstairs.

Isolde shakes her head. "It's fine. I'm older than the pre-war US. I remember coming here by boat."

"That's the spirit. If nothing else, spite can encourage you."

Edited 2018-03-31 04:57 (UTC)

A trouble is, he's never been able to find suitable companionship. Not that he's really tried. And not that he's had many opportunities in his life as a ghoul (it's a sad fact that ghost people make terrible conversation partners; just try approaching them, and they'll chop your head off). And, well, it isn't as if Dean Domino was the friendliest person alive when he was human. He's always been better at making enemies. Or rivals. Or bittersweet... scratch that, just bitter acquaintances.

Would it be nice to find someone worth knowing in the Wasteland? He likes to think not, likes to think he doesn't need anyone and that making nice with anyone would really cramp his style. But there are times he grows weary of his own company. Times he even thinks that maybe, maybe he's missing out on something. That there's more to life than holing up inside his rooms churning over old grudges.

"Impressive. You're something special, aren't you?" There's no real warmth in the words - more a distanced curiosity - but there's also no hint of mockery. He might be starting to disdain her just a little less.

At her final remark, he snorts a laugh. “Spite and bitterness have always been my motivators of choice. ...I suppose I might put them to better use.”

Better to have enemies than no one, rivals, bitter acquaintances, all are better than no one. Trust her on this.

Isolde smiles at him, brilliant, haughty and at once rueful. "I know."

"You know, if you want to you could come with me for a night to a bar,
we could laugh at all the human idiots. Open up their throats if they bother us... it'll be fun."

Edited 2018-04-03 14:04 (UTC)

Oh, he has plenty of enemies. They're just kind of dead. Have been dead for two hundred years. In order to make new enemies he'll have to get to know people, or at least be around people, and so far that just hasn't been his scene.

She gets half a smirk with her 'I know.' While Dean doesn't always care for confidence in others - most people have no right thinking they're head and shoulders above anyone - he's starting to think maybe this woman (or whatever she is) has earned it. The jury's still out on that, of course, but there's a better chance with her than most.

"Taking pity on a recluse?" He cocks his head, considers. "No... I don't think you're one for pity, are you? Not worth the time or effort.

"I do like the way you think." Granted that he's less inclined to open up throats, more to let loose a flurry of positively scathing remarks. "Not sure how I feel about 'fun,' but I haven't had a good drink in ages."

The giggle gets him smiling, a remarkably genuine warmth from Bill Sikes. He likes to hear her like that (or he likes it right now, while the moment suits his fancy), free from care or strain. Likes to know he can give her those moments. And it makes him feel even more how good their life together is, how much it's a world of its own, untouchable by all else.

(Broken only from within, but that's a thought at the far back of his mind, and not one he's going to touch.)

Then that kiss. He likes that kiss as well, missed this closeness that pressure from her and how had he managed to go being separated for so long? Must've been hell. Was hell. "My faithful girl." She gets another kiss in return, and this time there's more pressure, while his hand goes to the back of her head, strokes her hair. "Anyone tries to take you away, I'll see they don't walk another ten steps in this life."

Words like this, gruff and violent, were words of love from Bill Sikes. Just as he'd kissed her with his knuckles or the back of a hand time and time again. They meant every bit to her as much as his proclamations of love. People didn't understand them, how she knew that's how he said he loved her. But that was because they didn't know Bill like she did. Never even bothered to take the time to really get to know him.

But not Nancy. Nancy knew him.

And faithful- there's a word she'd thought he'd never use again to describe her. But she was loyal. She was Bill's until the end and then back again. She hadn't had to think twice about returning to him, when she saw him that rainy day. She nuzzles against his neck. "You can expect the same from me- I'd do anything it'd take to stay with you."

Minutes ago, she had been crying, terrified of him. But now he was soft and lovely again, as he always was. Nancy parted her lips against his in her next kiss. Slowly, she starts to unfold herself from Bill, if only so they can transition into a more comfortable position on the bed, face to face.

Buddy tries to explain to the strange man why she can talk in a simple way, she points to herself with one hand, mimics talking with the other and soon enough, mock slices her own throat with the hand that was pointing with. It's outright dangerous for her to speak or even show her face in public.

Hopefully he understands.

His first thought is the guy had his throat cut; it’s just the kind of thing the jerks out here would pull. "Holy shit, are you kidding me, man? Are you fucking kidding me? That's some tough shit, that's real fucked up, they cut your... Ah... Uhm. Wait wait wait." Because that's not right, is it? Going over the gestures again, he sees a different meaning. Still shitty, but with a little less actual throat-cutting.

"Hehh, that's me, always jumping to conclusions. But I get you now, man. Sure, I get it. People really don’t like you, huh? Or they don't like what you've got to say? Sometimes I feel like that. Uh, felt like that. Back at the complex. Every time I'd start shooting off my mouth and the Man would give me a look or, ah, or just push me into a corner and give me some of his own words. Because, you know, he has the real gift, a true way of speaking, and I... Hell, I'm just splashing around, small fish in a small pond, you know what I mean?"

He's grinning now, fiddling with his camera. "Hey, uh. Is it okay if I talk around you? Or does that piss ‘em off? The people who want to" he repeats the gesture, finger across the throat "you?”

"No... pity is only for pet's and potential victims. You aren't any of that." Honestly, putting this old ghoul through such things would be rather... redundant. He survived the bombs and a decaying old hotel, even she knows her limits here. (And feral ghouls are annoying creatures. She likes Dean's barbed wits.)

"Well, it's a start at least. Just think about it, alright?"

picture prompt meme

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nancy gets all the love yous tonight

screa

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oh nancy

oh my god

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